EPIGRAPH It should therefore become the particular aim of the American distiller to make a spirit purely American, entirely the produce of our own country; and if the pure, unadulterated grain spirit cannot be rendered sufficiently palatable to those tastes, that are vitiated by the use of French brandy or Jamaican rum, let us search our own woods for an article to give it taste sufficiently pleasant for these depraved appetites. Harrison Hall, The Distiller, 1818 The joy of bourbon drinking is not the pharmacological effect of the C H OH on the cortex but 2 5 rather the instant of the whiskey being knocked back and the little explosion of Kentucky U.S.A. sunshine in the cavity of the nasopharynx and the hot bosky bite of Tennessee summertime— aesthetic considerations to which the effect of the alcohol is, if not dispensable, at least secondary. Walker Percy Old Jim and Jack are a hell of a couple fellers at night, but they ain’t worth a damn the next morning. Overheard by your Faithful Author at a family reunion CONTENTS Epigraph Prologue: America in a Bottle 1: Catalans, Corn Beer, and the Age of Discovery 2: A Tale of Two Georges 3: The Scots-Irish Are Coming, the Scots-Irish Are Coming! 4: Bourbon’s Rebellious Phase 5: Whiskey from a Gilded Glass 6: How the West Was Fun 7: An Irishman, an Italian, a Pole Walk into a Bar . . . and Prohibition Begins 8: G.I. Joe Gets His First DUI 9: It’s a Small (Batch) World After All Epilogue: Bourbon Renewal Acknowledgments Bibliography Index About the Author Credits Copyright About the Publisher PROLOGUE America in a Bottle I mmigrants established it, pioneers expanded it, and capitalists spread its influence across the world. It made the West wild, the twenties roar, and rock music roll. George Washington was one of its Founding Fathers, F. Scott Fitzgerald its poet laureate, Hank Williams its cowboy bard. Rebellions were fought to free it, the Native Americans were brought low by it, religious zealots crusaded against it . . . and come Thanksgiving at the in-laws’, millions whisper its praises. The answer to this befuddling historical riddle? If you guessed the “United States of America,” you are by no means wrong, although for our purposes “American whiskey” works just as well. Some small indication, perhaps, of how inextricably linked our national identity and national potation have become over three turbulent centuries of cohabitation and growth. The bourbon of today tastes very much like the oak-aged, corn-based spirit that, if legends are to be believed, the likes of Jacob Spears and Elijah Craig first barreled and dubbed “bourbon” before floating it down the Ohio River in the late eighteenth century. Only now, it’s shipped by the ton in ocean freighters to every corner of the globe, with industry giants Jim Beam and Jack Daniel’s1 selling half their total output to overseas markets. The frontier stills of Kentucky and Tennessee still abound, cooking up sour mash and funneling its char-kissed progeny into bottles. But the massive distilleries that house them serve as the present-day engines in a multi-billion-dollar industry, producing some thirty million twelve-bottle cases a year for domestic and global consumption. Bourbon got big—just like America. But in certain less-obvious ways, just like America, it has also stayed small. And across the entire breadth of that historical journey, bourbon has been our constant and unfailing companion, a tad belligerent, yes, yet ultimately beloved. It’s part of who we are as a nation. But is it really so strange? Peculiar that an alcoholic beverage could maintain for so long such a crucial and inexorable hold over the collective consciousness of an entire people? After all, the Russians love their vodka, the Mexicans cherish their tequila, and the French, well, they’ve got a thing for full-bodied wines. Couldn’t the argument be made that each civilization, irrespective of time or place, has some treasured vice that permeates the strata of its cultural mythology? Probably so. But in the case of bourbon whiskey, this relationship takes on a unique, practically symbiotic dimension. Bourbon is not merely a cultural offshoot or by-product—a Coca-Cola with kick or a boozy Big Mac. Nor is it simply an omnipresent catalyst in a vast American experience. Bourbon whiskey, when carefully examined and held up to the light, is the American experience, distilled, aged, and sealed in a bottle. A version, captured in glass and brought down to miniature, of the very country that willed it into existence. How so? Take a simple glance at bourbon’s history, and the parallels become undeniable: a primary ingredient (corn) first cultivated by Native Americans. A distillation technique brought from Europe by immigrants. A recipe invented on the Western frontier. A spirit of rebellion born of social upheaval. A coming of age in the tumult of the Roaring Twenties. A global emergence in the postwar years. Sound familiar? From the Jazz Age to the Space Age, the Lost Generation to Generation X, bourbon has created our heroes and crippled our stars, fueled our imaginations and flummoxed our ideals. Simply stated, bourbon is the American Spirit, both blessing and bane served neat or on the rocks. To know its story is to know our own. And this is how our story begins. . . . 1 Catalans, Corn Beer, and the Age of Discovery I t is customary in any sort of whiskey narrative to begin with complex taste descriptions and Gaelic etymologies; it is standard fare in a bourbon discussion to commence with bucolic portraits of old Kentucky life. In this first chapter, you will find none of the above. Our tale—the story of bourbon and of America—begins several centuries before the first ragged Kentuckian set up a pot still outside his frontier cabin. No, we have to reach further back to the crucial “big bang” moment when the Old World first came face-to-face with the New. More specifically, to when the medieval science of distillation met a previously unknown indigenous grain. And to find such a moment, we must start somewhere a little unexpected: with hopped-up Aztecs and one hard-partying Catalan. First, the Catalan. Allow us to present Senyor Ramon Llull. It was the year 1265, the Balearic Islands were freshly wrested from the Moors as part of Spain’s incipient Reconquista, and young Ramon was living the life of a libertine, even by the laxest of moral standards.2 Educated, wealthy, and incredibly well-connected (he was named head administrator to the royal family of Majorca, thanks to family ties), he had no compunction about indulging in the sensual pleasures of Mediterranean life, despite the pleadings of his wife and the mores of his social position. When not occupied with his relatively cushy job, Ramon wiled away his days writing dirty limericks and diddling the maids—more the stuff of reality TV shows and Rodney Dangerfield movies, it would seem, than religious conversions or scientific discoveries. But quite unexpectedly, he suddenly saw the light, as explained in this excerpt from the Vita Coaetanea: Ramon, while still a young man and Seneschal to the King of Majorca, was very given to composing worthless songs and poems and to doing other licentious things. One night he was sitting beside his bed, about to compose and write in his vulgar tongue a song to a lady whom he loved with a foolish love; and as he began to write this song, he looked to his right and saw our Lord Jesus Christ on the Cross, as if suspended in mid-air. As it turned out, a precoital midchoral sighting of a levitating, crucified Jesus proved impetus enough not only to shake Ramon away from his inveterate skirt-chasing and booze-hounding, but also to lead him right into the Holy Orders of Saint Francis. Spurred by his religious visions, the “born- again” Ramon Llull left behind the comforts of his title and the pleasures of his vices to pursue a life of monastic solitude; and in that state of quiet contemplation, Ramon’s intellectual faculties, previously stunted by carnal excesses, flourished. It takes a lush: Ramon Llull, the father of hard liquor (Wikimedia Commons) Ramon Llull would spend the next nine years following his revelation writing treatises on botany, philosophy, linguistics, theology, mathematics (he is considered by many to be the founder of computational math), and, most important for the purposes of this book, alchemy. Alchemy—the precursor of modern chemistry—included techniques for concentrating liquids through distillation. And while the history of distillation goes back to the classical scholars of Alexandria, no one up until that point had applied those scientific principles to alcoholic beverages.3 Or at least, not with the flaming passion or divine inspiration of the reformed party animal Ramon Llull, who, despite forswearing his rock star lifestyle, never completely abandoned his taste for the occasional tipple. In his journals, he is the first to pen specific formulas for “loosening” the alcohol from wine (for scientific purposes of course), and in his Potestas Divitiarum, he describes in workable detail a retentorium—a distilling condenser, the key component in the production of high-proof spirits. By applying some ancient technology to the popular drinks of his day, Ramon found that he could boil off the ethanol vapor, collect it in the neck of his makeshift still, and allow it to reliquefy upon cooling into something that packed a considerably stronger punch. It’s impossible to know how Ramon reacted to that very first sip, but one can surmise, based on his continued and enthusiastic “research” into the topic, that he knew he had stumbled upon something amazing. And just like that, modern alcohol distillation came into being, courtesy of the freshly tonsured erstwhile lush, the friar Ramon Llull. So what, exactly, did Ramon’s discovery mean? Essentially, a viable method for producing hard liquor from fermented drinks low in alcohol. In the warmer south of Europe, this meant turning grape- based wine into primitive brandy. In the colder north, it meant transforming grain-based beer into a primordial sort of whiskey. And across the continent, it meant a faster and far more efficient way to get, in the courtly parlance of medieval times, absolutely shit-faced. Ramon’s distillation techniques, along with the intoxicating aqua vitae they produced, would be spread rapidly and enthusiastically by his fellow learned monks to wherever both Christianity and fermented alcoholic beverages could be found. And the New World, although unknown to continental European civilization during Ramon Llull’s lifetime, was soon to become just such a place. Early distillers had a full range of alembic stills at their disposal. (Library of Congress) But wait, alcoholic beverages existed in the Americas before Columbus? Indeed they did. Distillation may require a still and a fermented drink, but fermentation requires only yeast and natural sugar—both of which could be found in North and South America long before any Genoese sailor mistook Jamaica for Japan. For the indigenous people of the Americas were masters of a domesticated crop with sugary potential: corn. And anyone who’s read the ingredient label on virtually any processed American snack food knows just how deliciously sweet corn syrup can be. Before immersing ourselves in the world of Native American corn beer, however, it is imperative to dispel several specious notions still lingering from earlier and less enlightened forms of Eurocentric thought: the ideas that Native Americans prior to European colonization were somehow “primitive,” lived in small hunter-gatherer bands, had no knowledge of horticulture or agriculture, and were strangers to the potentially harmful effects of alcohol consumption. Lies, lies, lies. Let’s start with the very real phenomenon of Native American cities. Indigenous metropolises existed in the Americas with population levels that not only measured up to European capitals, but in some cases dwarfed them. While our old friend Ramon Llull was discovering new and more efficient ways to get his drink on in medieval Europe, the Mississippian civilization of central Illinois had an urban center at Cahokia with a population of some fifteen thousand people—comparable in size to London or Madrid at that time. By the sixteenth century, the Incan city of Cuzco would be home to more than one hundred thousand inhabitants, making it significantly larger than the London or Madrid of that era. And the granddaddy of them all, the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlán, had between two hundred thousand and three hundred thousand rabid Montezuma fans hanging their hats there at night, making it one of the largest cities in the world at that time, and roughly five times larger than London or Madrid. Tomahawks and teepees? Try public parks, sewage systems, sanitation departments, professional sports facilities, and a host of urban planning features virtually unheard of in Europe. That’s not to say nomadic “hunter-gatherer” societies did not exist—they certainly did, both in the New World and the Old. But sprawling urban centers thrived right alongside them. And the logical follow-up question—by what mechanism does one sustain so many people? The answer proved identical on both sides of the Atlantic: farming. More specifically, grain farming. Dense concentrations of human beings require dense concentrations of carbohydrates, of the kind generally found in starchy crops. In Europe, there was wheat, millet, oats, rye, and barley to power the metropolis. In pre-Columbian America, there was wild rice, potatoes, manioc, and, you guessed it, corn. Also known as maize. The domesticated native grain that provided the raw energy to run indigenous cities. Archaeological evidence indicates corn was first planted in Mexico’s Balsa River valley some seven thousand years ago, a tamed and farmer-friendly version of the wild teosinte plant.4 By 1500 BC, corn and its husbandry had spread out of Mesoamerica to become the staple crop for many native North and South Americans. Grown primarily on hillsides, and rotated just as it is today with bean crops to put nitrogen back in the soil, corn was not just the staple in the indigenous urban world, it was sanctified, worshipped, and even deified.5 This corn worship occurred for all the obvious reasons mentioned, but for another, less obvious reason as well.